


patching up

by kiyala



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 18:04:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1046931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiyala/pseuds/kiyala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bahorel gets into fights for Grantaire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	patching up

"I didn't need you to punch that guy's face in," Grantaire says, and it's the first thing he's said since they got themselves kicked out of the bar. 

Bahorel looks up from where he's untying the laces of his boots, and grunts in acknowledgement. He doesn't make another sound, because he's knows that Grantaire has more to say, and he's waiting. 

"I don't need you to defend me, okay? I have thick skin. I don't care if strangers call me ugly, or if they call me stupid because I need my phone calculator to figure out change. I really don't. They don't matter." Grantaire pauses and wets his lips. His tongue goes back and forth over the cut at the corner of his lower lip. "I don't care if I have a huge nose or crooked teeth or dyscalculia or _anything_ , okay? I just—"

"Don't stand up for yourself?" Bahorel suggests, and he can't keep the anger out of his voice even though only some of it is directed at Grantaire. "You'll sit a table over from them and let them talk shit about you, loudly, because you don't think you deserve any better? Well fuck that, man. That's my— that's _you_ they're talking about and if it makes me want to break faces, I'm gonna break some fucking faces."

Grantaire gives him a look, somewhere between fond and frustrated, and Bahorel is pretty familiar with it now. 

"You're bleeding all over your favourite shirt," Grantaire mutters, and walks further into their apartment. 

Bahorel brings his fingers to his nose to realise it's started bleeding again. He rolls his eyes and wipes at it, which only serves to smear it everywhere, and follows Grantaire into the bathroom. Grantaire already has the first aid kid out, and Bahorel sits on the edge of the bathtub, pinching his nose. 

"You're such a fucking idiot," Grantaire tells him, but there's a smile tugging at his lips this time, so Bahorel counts it as a victory. He sits there and doesn't protest as Grantaire cleans the blood away and treats all the cuts and bruises on his face. "At least you didn't break it this time."

Bahorel huffs out a quiet laugh at that and Grantaire's smile grows, even as he turns his attention to Bahorel's hands, rubbing a thumb over his bloody knuckles before going over them with antiseptic. Grantaire isn't as beaten up as Bahorel is, but Bahorel returns the favour anyway, for the way it buys them a little bit more time, so he can think of what to say next.

His fingers curl around Grantaire's hand, and he smirks. "Just go ahead and _try_ telling me it didn't feel good to punch those guys."

Grantaire snorts quietly, and doesn't say a word. He tugs on Bahorel's shirt, looking pointedly at the blood just near the collar of it. Bahorel lifts his arms, letting Grantaire take it off. For a moment, Grantaire looks at the shirt, considering it, and then shrugs and throws it into the washing basket without bothering the get the blood off. Bahorel doesn't really mind, considering that it had been Grantaire's shirt to start off with anyway, soft and worn and comfortable, a little long on Grantaire but it fit Bahorel better. It'll probably go back into Grantaire's side of the pile of clothes in their closet, along with the rest of his stain and torn clothes, to be worn when he's painting. It's okay, Bahorel will probably steal another shirt later.

"Hey," Grantaire says softly, his hands on Bahorel's shoulders, warm against his skin. "Thanks."

Bahorel hums in reply, leaning forward to rest his head against Grantaire's chest. Grantaire wraps his arms around Bahorel properly, fingers scratching lightly over the nape of his neck. 

"I'm beating up anyone who doesn't think you're awesome," Bahorel murmurs. "That includes you."

Grantaire snorts quietly. "Please. I'd like to see you try."

"I could throw you, right now," Bahorel warns, adjusting his grip on Grantaire.

"Save it." Grantaire covers Bahorel's hands with his own. "I'm not really in the mood for fighting right now."

Bahorel doesn't ask what Grantaire _is_ in the mood for. He gets to his feet and follows as Grantaire walks to their room. They'd started off with two bedrooms, when they'd first moved in with each other. They'd started off with all kinds of agreements about boundaries and personal space and it hadn't even taken a month for them to throw all of that out of the window. Now, they only use the one bedroom because they sleep in the same bed, and Grantaire has converted the other into a studio where he works on his paintings.

Bahorel pushes Grantaire down onto the bed without preamble, sliding a hand under his shirt and kissing his neck before biting hard enough to leave a mark behind. Grantaire sighs quietly, his fingers tangling in Bahorel's hair, hooking a leg around his waist. They grind against each other at a slow pace, not quite desperate just yet when they're happy enough kissing and biting. Bahorel gets Grantaire's shirt off and kisses down his chest, fastening his teeth around a nipple and biting gently. 

"Fuck," Grantaire gasps, arching off the bed, and Bahorel takes it as permission to flick his tongue over the same nipple as his fingers roll the other between them. This earns him a whine and Grantaire tugs on his hair, pulling him back up into a messy kiss that still tastes a little bit like blood. 

They'd started off as fuck buddies, a long time ago, when they'd figured that they liked doing most things together so they might as well get off together too. It's changed since then, become something softer and deeper that neither of them question or really talk about, because they don't need to. 

Someone had asked them about it once, had looked between them, Grantaire's lips wet with Bahorel's spit, and asked, "So what _are_ you two?"

"We-eellll," Grantaire had replied, in what Bahorel affectionately calls his Little Shit voice. "He's Bahorel, and I'm Grantaire."

"Yeah. And we're, uh…" they looked at each other and grinned, speaking in unison. "Assholes."

It's the closest thing to an answer anyone's going to get. 

They get their pants off with a little more urgency this time, trying their hardest to manage this without breaking their kiss. Bahorel nearly falls off the bed and they pull apart then so they can laugh at each other. Bahorel gets to his feet, kicking his pants off and stripping out of his boxers too, and Grantaire does the same.

Back on the bed, Bahorel wraps a hand around their cocks, stroking firmly. They moan into each other's mouths and Grantaire reaches between them, joining Bahorel in jerking them both off. Grantaire cries out when Bahorel's teeth sink into his shoulder, coming hard. Bahorel is close behind, burying his face in Grantaire's neck and moaning. 

When they pull apart, Grantaire is smiling and that's enough to make Bahorel grin in reply. He presses a brief kiss to Grantaire's lips and gets up, walking to the bathroom to get a towel to wipe them both off. They discard it somewhere on the floor when they're done, wrapping their arms around each other as they settle back into bed. 

Grantaire is Bahorel's favourite person in the entire world, and he's not quiet about this fact. Sometimes, on the good days, Grantaire even believes it.


End file.
